Chapter 3 - The Ghost Account
The hospital room felt suddenly claustrophobic. Dante stepped closer to the bed, resting both hands on the metal guardrail, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that temporarily made me forget my aching ribs.
“Describe the documents in that envelope,” he commanded softly, his voice dead serious.
“Printouts of wire transfers,” I breathed, piecing the details together. “Millions of dollars routed through a dummy corporation called Vanguard Holdings. But here’s the kicker, Dante—Vanguard isn’t an independent entity. Its routing numbers match the exact internal clearing house your CFO uses for asset depreciation.”
Dante’s face darkened into a mask of pure fury. For three years, I had watched him slice through corporate adversaries with ruthless efficiency, but this was personal. This was treason from within his own inner circle.
“Marcus Vance,” Dante muttered, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“Your CFO?” I asked, my breath catching.
“Marcus has been with my family since my father’s era. Everyone trusts him. Everyone thinks he’s a harmless bean-counter.” Dante stood straight, his mind working at lightning speed. “If Vanguard is being used to bleed Moretti Global dry, and you accidentally stumbled onto his ledger trail yesterday afternoon, then Marcus didn't just want to scare me away from Northbridge. He wanted to silence you permanently before you handed those papers to me.”
“And when they searched my bag in the alley and didn’t find the physical envelope, they realized I must have left it somewhere else,” I realized, a cold shiver running down my spine. “Which means they’re going to look for it. Dante... my apartment.”
Before I could finish the warning, Dante was already pulling out his phone.
“Luca,” Dante snapped into the receiver the second the call connected. “Take a tactical team to Harper’s apartment in Lincoln Park immediately. Tear the place apart if you have to, secure any documents, and bring me every digital device. And sweep the perimeter—Marcus’s cleaners might already be there.”
He ended the call without waiting for a reply, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket. He looked down at me, his expression softening just a fraction, though the lethal edge in his eyes remained entirely unblunted.
“You’re not going back to that apartment, Harper. When you’re discharged, you’re coming straight to my private estate. It’s a fortress. No one touches you there.”
“Dante, I’m your assistant, not a VIP prisoner,” I protested weakly, though my body ached too much to put real fight into it.
“You are the only person who holds the key to bringing down a traitor who has been robbing my family for years,” he replied, his voice dropping into an intimate, uncompromising register. “And after what happened last night, letting you out of my sight is a mistake I will never make again.”
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Just then, my heart monitor beeped rhythmically as the door to my hospital room slowly pushed open. A nurse walked in holding a clipboard and a fresh bag of intravenous saline, but my instincts—heightened by trauma and adrenaline—screamed in protest.
I looked at the nurse’s badge. It was slightly crooked. And her shoes were heavy black leather work boots, entirely unsuited for a hospital floor.
